AN ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 129

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,

E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead,

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; If chance, by lonely contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit should inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

“ Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

“ There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,

That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch,

And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

“Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn,

Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

“ One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill,

Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came ; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.

“ The next, with dirges due, in sad array, : Slow through the church-way path we saw him

borne ; Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.

y “There scattered oft, the earliest of the year,

By hands unseen are showers of violets found; The redbreast loves to build and warble there,

And little footsteps lightly print the ground.”

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,

A youth to fortune and to fame unknown; Fair science frowned not on his humble birth,

And melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

Heaven did a recompense as largely send; He gave to misery all he had, a tear; He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished)

a friend.

No further seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,)

The bosom of his Father and his God.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. — Campbell.

YE Mariners of England !
That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze :.
Your glorious standard launch again,
To match another foe!
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

131

While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

The spirit of your fathers
Shall start from every wave !
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave;
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,-
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

Britannia needs no bulwark, —
No towers along the steep ;
Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below,
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn,
Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors,
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

ON MUNGO PARK'S FINDING A TUFT OF GREEN MOSS IN THE AFRICAN DESERT.- Edinburgh

Christian Herald

The sun had reached its midday height,
And poured down floods of burning light

On Afric's burning land ;
No cloudy veil obscured the sky,
And the hot breeze that struggled by

Was filled with glowing sand.

No mighty rock upreared its head
To bless the wanderer with its shade,

In all the weary plane;
No palm-trees, with refreshing green
To glad the dazzled eyes, were seen, —

But one wide, sandy main.

Dauntless and daring was the mind
That left all home-born joys behind

Those deserts to explore ;
To trace the mighty Niger's course,
And find it bubbling from its source

In wilds untrod before.

And, ah! shall we less daring show,
Who nobler ends and motives know

Than ever heroes dream;
Who seek to lead the savage mind
The precious fountain-head to find

Whence flows salvation's stream?

Let peril, nakedness, and sword,
Hot, barren lands, and despot's word,

Our burning zeal oppose;

A TUFT OF GREEN MOSS IN THE AFRICAN DESERT. 133

Yet, martyr-like, we 'll lift the voice,
Bidding the wilderness rejoice,

And blossom as the rose.

Sad, faint, and weary, on the sand
Our traveller sat him down ; his hand

Covered his burning head ;
Above, beneath, behind, around,
No resting for the eye he found;

All nature seemed as dead.

One tiny tuft of moss alone,
Mantling with freshest green a stone,

Fixed his delighted gaze;
Through bursting tears of joy he smiled,
And, while he raised the tendril wild,

His lips o'erflowed with praise.

O, shall not He who keeps thee green,
Here in the waste, unknown, unseen,

Thy fellow-exile save ?
He who commands the dew to feed
Thy gentle flower can surely lead

Me from a scorching grave.

The heaven-sent plant new hope inspired,
New courage all his bosom fired,

And bore him safe along, -
Till, with the evening's cooling shade,
He slept within the verdant glade,

Lulled by the negro's song.

Thus we in this world's wilderness,
Where sin and sorrow,- guilt, - distress,

Seem undisturbed to reign,